Books: He Knew He Was Right

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Thus she delivered herself; and Louis Trevelyan, though he was sore and
angry, could not but feel that she had taken the part of a friend. All
that she had said had been true; all that she had said to him he had
said to himself more than once. He too hated the man. He believed him
to be a snake in the grass. But it was intolerably bitter to him that
he should be warned about his wife's conduct by any living human being;
that he, to whom the world had been so full of good fortune that he,
who had in truth taught himself to think that he deserved so much good
fortune, should be made the subject of care on behalf of his friend,
because of danger between himself and his wife! On the spur of the
moment he did not know what answer to make. 'He is not a man whom I
like myself,' he said.

'Just be careful, Louis, that is all,' said Lady Milborough, and then
she was gone.

To be cautioned about his wife's conduct cannot be pleasant to any man,
and it was very unpleasant to Louis Trevelyan. He, too, had been asked
a question about Sir Marmaduke's expected visit to England after the
ladies had left the room. All the town had heard of it except himself.
He hardly spoke another word that evening till the brougham was
announced; and his wife had observed his silence. When they were seated
in the carriage, he together with his wife and Nora Rowley, he
immediately asked a question about Sir Marmaduke. 'Emily,' he said, 'is
there any truth in a report I hear that your father is coming home?' No
answer was made, and for a moment or two there was silence. 'You must
have heard of it, then?' he said. 'Perhaps you can tell me, Nora, as
Emily will not reply. Have you heard anything of your father's coming?'

'Yes; I have heard of it,' said Nora slowly.

'And why have I not been told?'

'It was to be kept a secret,' said Mrs Trevelyan boldly.

'A secret from me; and everybody else knows it! And why was it to be a
secret?'

'Colonel Osborne did not wish that it should be known,' said Mrs
Trevelyan.

'And what has Colonel Osborne to do between you and your father in any
matter with which I may not be made acquainted? I will have nothing
more between you and Colonel Osborne. You shall not see Colonel
Osborne. Do you hear me?'

'Yes, I hear you, Louis.'

'And do you mean to obey me? By G-- , you shall obey me. Remember this,
that I lay my positive order upon you, that you shall not see Colonel
Osborne again. You do not know it, perhaps, but you are already
forfeiting your reputation as an honest woman, and bringing disgrace
upon me by your familiarity with Colonel Osborne.'

'Oh, Louis, do not say that!' said Nora.

'You had better let him speak it all at once,' said Emily.

'I have said what I have got to say. It is now only necessary that you
should give me your solemn assurance that you will obey me.'

'If you have said all that you have to say, perhaps you will listen to
me,' said his wife.

'I will listen to nothing till you have given me your promise.'

'Then I certainly shall not give it you.'

'Dear Emily, pray, pray do what he tells you,' said Nora.

'She has yet to learn that it is her duty to do as I tell her,' said
Trevelyan. 'And because she is obstinate, and will not learn from those
who know better than herself what a woman may do, and what she may not,
she will ruin herself, and destroy my happiness.'

'I know that you have destroyed my happiness by your unreasonable
jealousy,' said the wife. 'Have you considered what I must feel in
having such words addressed to me by my husband? If I am fit to be told
that I must promise not to see any man living, I cannot be fit to be
any man's wife.' Then she burst out into an hysterical fit of tears,
and in this condition she got out of the carriage, entered her house,
and hurried up to her own room.

'Indeed, she has not been to blame,' said Nora to Trevelyan on the
staircase.

'Why has there been a secret kept from me between her and this man; and
that too, after I had cautioned her against being intimate with him? I
am sorry that she should suffer; but it is better that she should
suffer a little now, than that we should both suffer much by-and-by.'

Nora endeavoured to explain to him the truth about the committee, and
Colonel Osborne's promised influence, and the reason why there was to
be a secret. But she was too much in a hurry to get to her sister to
make the matter plain, and he was too much angered to listen to her. He
shook his head when she spoke of Colonel Osborne's dislike to have his
name mentioned in connection with the matter. 'All the world knows it,'
he said with scornful laughter.

It was in vain that Nora tried to explain to him that though all the
world might know it, Emily herself had only heard of the proposition as
a thing quite unsettled, as to which nothing at present should be
spoken openly. It was in vain to endeavour to make peace on that night.
Nora hurried up to her sister, and found that the hysterical tears had
again given place to anger. She would not see her husband, unless he
would beg her pardon; and he would not see her unless she would give
the promise he demanded. And the husband and wife did not see each
other again on that night.

CHAPTER IV - HUGH STANBURY

It has been already stated that Nora Rowley was not quite so well
disposed as perhaps she ought to have been, to fall in love with the
Honourable Charles Glascock, there having come upon her the habit of
comparing him with another gentleman whenever this duty of falling in
love with Mr Glascock was exacted from her. That other gentleman was
one with whom she knew that it was quite out of the question that she
should fall in love, because he had not a shilling in the world; and
the other gentleman was equally aware that it was not open to him to
fall in love with Nora Rowley for the same reason. In regard to such
matters Nora Rowley had been properly brought up, having been made to
understand by the best and most cautious of mothers, that in that
matter of falling in love it was absolutely necessary that bread and
cheese should be considered. 'Romance is a very pretty thing,' Lady
Rowley had been wont to say to her daughters, 'and I don't think life
would be worth having without a little of it. I should be very sorry to
think that either of my girls would marry a man only because he had
money. But you can't even be romantic without something to eat and
drink.' Nora thoroughly understood all this, and being well aware that
her fortune in the world, if it ever was to be made at all, could only
be made by marriage, had laid down for herself certain hard lines lines
intended to be as fast as they were hard. Let what might come to her in
the way of likings and dislikings, let the temptation to her be ever so
strong, she would never allow her heart to rest on a man who, if he
should ask her to be his wife, would not have the means of supporting
her. There were many, she knew, who would condemn such a resolution as
cold, selfish, and heartless. She heard people saying so daily. She
read in books that it ought to be so regarded. But she declared to
herself that she would respect the judgment neither of the people nor
of the books. To be poor alone, to have to live without a husband, to
look forward to a life in which there would be nothing of a career,
almost nothing to do, to await the vacuity of an existence in which she
would be useful to no one, was a destiny which she could teach herself
to endure, because it might probably be forced upon her by necessity.
Were her father to die there would hardly be bread for that female
flock to eat. As it was, she was eating the bread of a man in whose
house she was no more than a visitor. The lot of a woman; as she often
told herself, was wretched, unfortunate, almost degrading. For a woman
such as herself there was no path open to her energy, other than that
of getting a husband. Nora Rowley thought of all this till she was
almost sick of the prospect of her life especially sick of it when she
was told with much authority by the Lady Milboroughs of her
acquaintance, that it was her bounden duty to fall in love with Mr
Glascock. As to falling in love with Mr Glascock, she had not as yet
quite made up her mind. There was so much to be said on that side of
the question, if such falling in love could only be made possible. But
she had quite made up her mind that she would never fall in love with a
poor man. In spite, however, of all that, she felt herself compelled to
make comparisons between Mr Glascock and one Mr Hugh Stanbury, a
gentleman who had not a shilling.

Mr Hugh Stanbury had been at college the most intimate friend of Louis
Trevelyan, and at Oxford had been, in spite of Trevelyan's successes, a
bigger man than his friend. Stanbury had not taken so high a degree as
Trevelyan indeed had not gone out in honours at all. He had done little
for the credit of his college, and had never put himself in the way of
wrapping himself up for life in the scanty lambswool of a fellowship.
But he had won for himself reputation as a clever speaker, as a man who
had learned much that college tutors do not profess to teach, as a
hard-headed, ready-witted fellow, who, having the world as an oyster
before him, which it was necessary that he should open, would certainly
find either a knife or a sword with which to open it.

Immediately on leaving college he had come to town, and had entered
himself at Lincoln's Inn. Now, at the time of our story, he was a
barrister of four years' standing, but had never yet made a guinea. He
had never made a guinea by his work as a barrister, and was beginning
to doubt of himself whether he ever would do so. Not, as he knew well,
that guineas are generally made with ease by barristers of four years'
standing, but because, as he said to his friends, he did not see his
way to the knack of it. He did not know an attorney in the world, arid
could not conceive how any attorney Should ever be induced to apply to
him for legal aid. He had done his work of learning his trade about as
well as other young men, but had had no means of distinguishing himself
within his reach. He went the Western Circuit because his aunt, old
Miss Stanbury, lived at Exeter, but, as he declared of himself, had he
had another aunt living at York, he would have had nothing whatsoever
to guide him in his choice. He sat idle in the courts, and hated
himself for so sitting. So it had been with him for two years without
any consolation or additional burden from other employment than that of
his profession. After that, by some chance, he had become acquainted
with the editor of the Daily Record, and by degrees had taken to the
writing of articles. He had been told by all his friends, and
especially by Trevelyan, that if he did this, he might as well sell his
gown and wig. He declared, in reply, that he had no objection to sell
his gown and wig. He did not see how he should ever make more money out
of them than he would do by such sale. But for the articles which he
wrote, he received instant payment, a process which he found to be most
consolatory, most comfortable, and, as he said to Trevelyan, as warm to
him as a blanket in winter.

Trevelyan, who was a year younger than Stanbury, had taken upon himself
to be very angry. He professed that he did not think much of the trade
of a journalist, and told Stanbury that he was sinking from the highest
to almost the lowest business by which an educated man and a gentleman
could earn his bread. Stanbury had simply replied that he saw some
bread on the one side, but none on the other; and that bread from some
side was indispensable to him. Then there had come to be that famous
war between Great Britain and the republic of Patagonia, and Hugh
Stanbury had been sent out as a special correspondent by the editor and
proprietor of the Daily Record. His letters had been much read, and had
called up a great deal of newspaper pugnacity. He had made important
statements which had been flatly denied, and found to be utterly false;
which again had been warmly reasserted and proved to be most remarkably
true to the letter. In this way the correspondence, and he as its
author, became so much talked about that, on his return to England, he
did actually sell his gown and, wig and declare to his friends and to
Trevelyan among the number that he intended to look to journalism for
his future career.

He had been often at the house in Curzon Street in the earliest happy
days of his friend's marriage, and. had thus become acquainted
intimately acquainted with Nora Rowley. And now again, since his return
from Patagonia, that acquaintance had been renewed. Quite lately, since
the actual sale of that wig and gown had been effected, he had not been
there so frequently as before, because Trevelyan had expressed his
indignation almost too openly.

'That such a man as you should be so faint-hearted,' Trevelyan had
said, 'is a thing that I can not understand.'

'Is a man faint-hearted when he finds it improbable that he shall be
able to leap his horse over a house.'

'What you had to do, had been done by hundreds before you.'

'What I had to do has never yet. been done by any man,' replied
Stanbury. 'I had to live upon nothing till the lucky hour should
strike.'

'I think you have been cowardly,' said Trevelyan.

Even this had made no quarrel between the two men; but Stanbury had
expressed himself annoyed by his friend's language, and partly on that
account, and partly perhaps on another, had stayed away from Curzon
Street. As Nora Rowley had made comparisons about him, so had he made
comparisons about. her. He had owned to himself that had it been
possible that he should marry, he would willingly entrust his happiness
to Miss Rowley. And he had thought once or twice that Trevelyan had
wished that such an arrangement might be made at some future day.
Trevelyan had always been much more sanguine in expecting success for
his friend at the Bar, than Stanbury had been for himself. It might
well be that such a man as Trevelyan might think that a clever rising
barrister would be an excellent husband for his sister-in-law, but that
a man who earned a precarious living as a writer for a penny paper
would be by no means so desirable a connection. Stanbury, as he thought
of this, declared to himself that he would not care two straws for
Trevelyan in the matter, if he could see his way without other
impediments. But the other impediments were there in such strength and
numbers as to make him feel that it could not have been intended by
Fate that he should take to himself a wife. Although those letters of
his to the Daily Record had been so pre-eminently successful, he had
never yet been able to earn by writing above twenty-five or thirty
pounds a month. If that might be continued to him he could live upon it
himself; but, even with his moderate views, it would not suffice for
himself and family.

He had told Trevelyan that while living as an expectant barrister he
had no means of subsistence. In this, as Trevelyan knew, he was not
strictly correct. There was an allowance of 100 pounds a year coming to
him from the aunt whose residence at Exeter had induced him to devote
himself to the Western Circuit. His father had been a clergyman with a
small living in Devonshire, and had now been dead some fifteen years.
His mother and two sisters were still living in a small cottage in his
late father's parish, on the interest of the money arising from a life
insurance. Some pittance from sixty to seventy pounds a year was all
they had among them. But there was a rich aunt, Miss Stanbury, to whom
had come considerable wealth in a manner most romantic the little tale
shall be told before this larger tale is completed and this aunt had
undertaken to educate and place out in the world her nephew Hugh. So
Hugh had been sent to Harrow, and then to Oxford where he had much
displeased his aunt by not accomplishing great things and then had been
set down to make his fortune as a barrister in London, with an
allowance of 100 pounds a year, his aunt having paid, moreover, certain
fees for entrance, tuition, and the like. The very hour in which Miss
Stanbury learned that her nephew was writing for a penny newspaper she
sent off a dispatch to tell him that he must give up her or the penny
paper. He replied by saying that he felt himself called upon to earn
his bread in the only line from which, as it seemed to him, bread would
be forthcoming. By return of post he got another letter to say that he
might draw for the quarter then becoming due, but that that would be
the last. And it was the last.

Stanbury made an ineffectual effort to induce his aunt to make over the
allowance or at least a part of it to his mother and sisters, but the
old lady paid no attention whatever to the request. She never had
given, and at that moment did not intend to give, a shilling to the
widow and daughters of her brother. Nor did she intend, or had she ever
intended, to leave a shilling of her money to Hugh Stanbury as she had
very often told him. The money was, at her death, to go back to the
people from whom it had come to her.

When Nora Rowley made those comparisons between Mr Hugh Stanbury and Mr
Charles Glascock, they were always wound up very much in favour of the
briefless barrister. It was not that he was the handsomer man, for he
was by no means handsome, nor was he the bigger man, for Mr Glascock
was six feet tall; nor was he better dressed, for Stanbury was untidy
rather than otherwise in his outward person. Nor had he any air of
fashion or special grace to recommend him, for he was undoubtedly an
awkward-mannered man. But there was a glance of sunshine in his eye,
and a sweetness in the curl of his mouth when he smiled, which made
Nora feel that it would have been all up with her had she not made so
very strong a law for her own guidance. Stanbury was a man about five
feet ten, with shoulders more than broad in proportion, stout limbed,
rather awkward of his gait, with large feet and hands, with soft wavy
light hair, with light grey eyes, with a broad, but by no means ugly,
nose. His mouth and lips were large, and he rarely showed his teeth. He
wore no other beard than whiskers, which he was apt to cut away through
heaviness of his hand in shaving, till Nora longed to bid him be more
careful. 'He doesn't care what sort of a guy he makes of himself, she
once said to her sister, almost angrily. 'He is a plain man, and he
knows it,' Emily had replied. Mr Trevelyan was doubtless a handsome
man, and it was almost on Nora's tongue to say something ill-natured on
the subject. Hugh Stanbury was reputed to be somewhat hot in spirit and
manner. He would be very sage in argument, pounding down his ideas on
politics, religion, or social life with his fist as well as his voice.
He was quick, perhaps, at making antipathies, and quick, too, in making
friendships; impressionable, demonstrative, eager, rapid in his
movements sometimes to the great detriment of his shins and knuckles;
and he possessed the sweetest temper that was ever given to a man for
the blessing of a woman. This was the man between whom and Mr Glascock
Nora Rowley found it to be impossible not to make comparisons.

On the very day after Lady Milborough's dinner party Stanbury overtook
Trevelyan in the street, and asked his friend where he was going
eastward. Trevelyan was on his way to call upon his lawyer, and said
so. But he did not say why he was going to his lawyer. He had sent to
his wife by Nora that morning to know whether she would make to him the
promise he required. The only answer which Nora could draw from her
sister was a counter question, demanding whether he would ask her
pardon for the injury he had done her. Nora had been most eager, most
anxious, most conciliatory as a messenger; but no good had come of
these messages, and Trevelyan had gone forth to tell all his trouble to
his family lawyer. Old Mr Bideawhile had been his father's ancient and
esteemed friend, and he could tell things to Mr Bideawhile which he
could not bring himself to tell to any other living man; and he could
generally condescend to accept Mr Bideawhile's advice, knowing that his
father before him had been guided by the same.

'But you are out of your way for Lincoln's Inn Fields,' said Stanbury.

'I have to call at Twining's. And where are you going?'

'I have been three times round St. James's Park to collect my
thoughts,' said Stanbury, 'and now I'm on my way to the Daily R., 250,
Fleet Street. It is my custom of an afternoon. I am prepared to
instruct the British public of tomorrow on any subject, as per order,
from the downfall of a European compact to the price of a London mutton
chop.'

'I suppose there is nothing more to be said about it,' said Trevelyan,
after a pause.

'Not another word. How should there be? Aunt Jemima has already drawn
tight the purse strings, and it would soon be the casual ward in
earnest if it were not for the Daily R. God bless the Daily R. Only
think what a thing it is to have all subjects open to one, from the
destinies of France to the profit proper to a butcher.'

'If you like it!'

'I do like it. It may not be altogether honest. I don't know what is.
But it's a deal honester than defending thieves and bamboozling juries.
How is your wife?'

'She's pretty well, thank you.'

Stanbury knew at once from the tone of his friend's voice that there
was something wrong.

'And Louis the less?' he said, asking after Trevelyan's child.

'He's all right.'

'And Miss Rowley? When one begins one's inquiries one is bound to go
through the whole family.'

'Miss Rowley is pretty well,' said Trevelyan.

Previously to this, Trevelyan when speaking of his sister-in-law to
Stanbury, had always called her Nora, and had been wont to speak of her
as though she were almost as much the friend of one of them as of the
other. The change of tone on this occasion was in truth occasioned by
the sadness of the man's thoughts in reference to his wife, but
Stanbury attributed it to another cause. 'He need not be afraid of me,'
he said to himself, 'and at least he should not show me that he is.'
Then they parted, Trevelyan going into Twining's bank, and Stanbury
passing on towards the office of the Daily R.

Stanbury had in truth been altogether mistaken as to the state of his
friend's mind on that morning. Trevelyan, although he had, according to
his custom, put in a word in condemnation of the newspaper line of
life, was at the moment thinking whether he would not tell all his
trouble to Hugh Stanbury. He knew that he should not find anywhere, not
even in Mr Bideawhile, a more friendly or more trustworthy listener.
When Nora Rowley's name had been mentioned, he had not thought of her.
He had simply repeated the name with the usual answer. He was at the
moment cautioning himself against a confidence which after all might
not be necessary, and which on this occasion was not made. When one is
in trouble it is a great ease to tell one's trouble to a friend; but
then one should always wash one's dirty linen at home. The latter
consideration prevailed, and Trevelyan allowed his friend to go on
without burdening him with the story of that domestic quarrel. Nor did
he on that occasion tell it to Mr Bideawhile; for Mr Bideawhile was not
found at his chambers.

CHAPTER V - SHEWING HOW THE QUARREL PROGRESSED

Trevelyan got back to his own house at about three, and on going into
the library, found on his table a found on his table a letter to him
addressed in his wife's handwriting. He opened it quickly, hoping to
find that promise which he had demanded, and resolving that if it were
made he would at once become affectionate, yielding, and gentle to his
wife. But there was not a word written by his wife within the envelope.
It contained simply another letter, already opened, addressed to her.
This letter had been brought up to her during her husband's absence
from the house, and was as follows:

Acrobats, Thursday.

'DEAR EMILY,

'I have just come from the Colonial Office. It is all settled, and
Sir M. has been sent for. Of course, you will tell T. now.

Yours, F.O.

The letter was, of course, from Colonel Osborne, and Mrs Trevelyan,
when she received it, had had great doubts whether she would enclose it
to her husband opened or unopened. She had hitherto refused to make the
promise which her husband exacted, but nevertheless, she was minded to
obey him; Had he included in his demand any requirement that she should
receive no letter from Colonel Osborne, she would not have opened this
one. But nothing had been said about letters, and she would not shew
herself to be afraid. So she read the note, and then sent it down to be
put on Mr Trevelyan's table in an envelope addressed to him.

'If he is not altogether blinded, it will show him how cruelly he has
wronged me,' said she to her sister. She was sitting at the time with
her boy in her lap, telling herself that the child's features were in
all respects the very same as his father's, and that, come what come
might, the child should always be taught by her to love and respect his
father. And then there came a horrible thought. What if the child
should be taken away from her? If this quarrel, out of which she saw no
present mode of escape, were to lead to a separation between her and
her husband, would not the law, and the judges, and the courts, and all
the Lady Milboroughs of their joint acquaintance into the bargain, say
that the child should go with his father? The judges, and the courts,
and the Lady Milboroughs would, of course, say that she was the sinner.
And what could she do without her boy? Would not any humility, any
grovelling in the dust be better for her than that? 'It is a very poor
thing to be a woman,' she said to her sister.